Saturday, October 13, 2012

automatic writing: send in the clowns

care to test my limits? unhinge the breaths and scribbled works that comes with the day? you won’t like it. it's like rotten apples sitting stagnant in an open cupboard that stinks of cheese (the owners will never let us back in). the strings pluck arteries and veins sans fer, lungs itch into throat yet breathing isn’t difficult. no pain no gain. but there’s a blockage, obstruction, arret and it hurts in some part of you. crescendo of sirens and reversing salt trucks, the snow sticks to my hair even when I’m outside. rush in and the neighbour’s granddaughter trudges home from school. lavender jacket, lilac striped toque and a GREEN backpack, the strap over her chest holding the colours together. stompstomp shuffle click slam. a story over, closed by a door like the man walking a dog who never smiles at you, as though he resents his friend’s tenants. just go to sleep and it’ll be over – a butterfly pinch away from parked cars under blinking street lights. 

No comments:

Post a Comment